I Am The Distance You Put Between (All The Moments That We Will Be)
by yumi michiyo
Summary: Quinn is repressed, Rachel is oblivious, and Kurt is very, very exasperated. AU. Faberry.


Kurt's life hasn't been the smoothest – of course, unlike _someone_ he knows, he _isn't_ taking notes for his future memoir – but he's managed, somehow. Even sitting at his worn kitchen table, bleary-eyed and insufficiently hydrated, his meticulously-planned skincare regime interrupted, Kurt really likes how it's turned out so far.

The reason for his interrupted skincare regime (his slightly insane and very, very driven housemate, Rachel Berry) is currently pacing around him, still mid-rant. He tunes back in to check on her progress.

" – said we'd keep in touch, and she even bought those Metro passes, so of _course_ I believed her, because I looked those up and you won't _believe_ how much those things cost, Kurt! And then now she – "

Kurt sighs. The last thing he remembers before he tuned out was Quinn, and it seems like he hasn't missed much. "Rachel," he interrupts, in his best _I-swear-on-every-item-of-fashion-I-hold-dear-I-will-murder-you-if-you-don't-shut-up-right-now_ tone of voice, and her mouth snaps shut. "Sit down."

She complies, grudgingly, and he wants to roll his eyes at the way Rachel infuses everything she does with drama. But instead he says in the most soothing tone he can muster: "Quinn wouldn't cancel her trip here without good reason. You know that, right?"

"Yes," she says. Sulkily. He lets it go.

"You guys are friends. Good friends. I certainly don't understand how that happened, given your teenage angst-ridden histories, adolescent insecurities, and your... _sparkling personalities_ ," he rolls his eyes and Rachel smiles ruefully, "and I highly doubt she'd be up to some convoluted shenanigans to – I don't know, steal your guy away."

"Did you just say 'shenanigans'?"

"My point being," continues Kurt loudly, "don't freak out, don't overthink, and approach this calmly and rationally like you normally wouldn't." He makes a quick mental note to talk to Blaine about his love of dated TV shows, and the inadvertent osmosis that has clearly taken place.

"Hey!" Rachel flings the closest thing on hand at him – the dish towel – but her aim is atrocious, and it flops limply to the floor beside his chair. Kurt bends to pick it up. By the time he sets it beside the sink where it belongs, Rachel's slumped at the table in an attitude clearly inspired by the towel. "You're really upset about this," he says wonderingly, and receives a withering look for his trouble. "Okay, that was the wrong thing to say. I'm sorry."

"I don't know, Kurt," says Rachel. "I want to believe her, that we can honestly start over and be friends, but – I spent two years being slushied and insulted and mocked and being featured in pornographic illustrations. Not to mention we competed for the attention of the same guy – whose name I will not mention. I'm not being paranoid. Am I?"

"Sweetie, I know what you're thinking – and believe me, you're not paranoid. This is Quinn Fabray we're talking about. She has her moments – many moments, actually – but deep, _deep_ underneath it all? She's not a bad person."

Rachel's lips quirked into a smile. "Yeah."

"So trust her. Make your own plans to visit New Haven. I'm sure you're dying to see the drama department's ingénues and how they pale in comparison to you."

"Kurt!" she exclaims, laughing and pushing at him. "Quinn is one of those ingénues!"

"What? Weren't you the one who told her she's pitchy and occasionally sharp?"

"Perhaps, but she hasn't had the advantage of years of proper vocal training as I have." Rachel shakes her head, but the furrowed brow is gone. "Thanks, Kurt," she says quietly, sitting up and grabbing her empty coffee mug. "Since when did you get so smart?"

"I've always been smart. That's why I don't date girls."

There's a moment in which he's convinced she's going to throw something substantially heavier than a limp dishcloth at him (he's more worried about the collateral damage), but Rachel merely huffs and flounces away, albeit in a better mood than earlier. She pauses mid-flounce to push her chair in neatly.

He considers it a success.

* * *

He feels vindicated to learn that Quinn really had an unexpected schedule shuffle and was apologetic enough to call Rachel to explain. Fortunately, the full Rachel Berry meltdown had been successfully averted and a much more sensible Rachel had offered to go to New Haven to see Quinn instead.

Judging from the way she seems to light up the entire apartment when she comes back, and the fact it takes her two days to stop gushing about her trip and Quinn, Yale's campus and Quinn, Quinn's classes and (of course) Quinn, it was a success.

And then work at Vogue takes over his life. Between the whirl of gorgeous fashions, Isabelle's giddy friends, and the (still dull) drudge work, Kurt forgets all about Quinn Fabray.

Until the night he comes home after averting a gruelling crisis involving a runaway llama, a priceless Vera Wang gown, and three fashion writers (don't ask) to find Quinn Fabray sitting on his couch.

She looks up from the book in her lap when he enters and gives him a smile. "Hi."

"Hi, Quinn," he mumbles back, aware he's still staring. Mentally, Kurt runs through his (overstuffed) planner, wondering if he's missed a memo or a text somewhere… Then it hits him. "What am I doing? Come here, woman; god, I've missed you."

She pulls away from the hug first, a sheepish smile on her face. "I'm done with exams and decided to surprise Rachel. I hope you don't mind."

"No! Of course I don't, but – um, how'd you get in?" Kurt has horror stories flashing through his mind of forgetting to lock the doors and New York's crime rate is notorious.

"Rachel gave me a spare the last time she visited." She shows him the key in her hand; Quinn's smile turns tremulous. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, of course not!" Kurt dumps his bag on the other chair before seating himself primly beside her. He makes a mental note to talk to Rachel about handing out keys to their apartment, even if it's someone they both know; it's a little mean, but Kurt has his reservations on wholeheartedly trusting someone who once let a homeless man swipe her credit card through his buttcrack. "I'm so glad to see you – it's been what, a few months? You look wonderful."

She actually turns pink, ducking her head a little as she says, "Thanks. You look pretty amazing yourself." It's so unlike Quinn Fabray, Head Cheerio and president of the Celibacy Club – and so Quinn Fabray, proud former Glee club member and current Yale student. He isn't just being polite; she really does look good in the navy sweater, white jeans and trim leather boots.

"And were you expecting anything less? I do work at Vogue, woman. If my boss wasn't watching me, I'd have purloined most of the wardrobe," he says teasingly to get a laugh out of her.

The conversation they fall into is comfortable but shallow – he doesn't really know _know_ Quinn. They've seen a lot of each other through mutual friends and extracurriculars and classes. They were frequently paired together for Glee performances, but they weren't really friends.

But then when the door slides open and Rachel comes in, flushed and windswept, the surprisingly soft expression on Quinn's face tells Kurt that he really doesn't know Quinn Fabray at all.

"Hi Kurt, did you – "Rachel nearly drops her coat when she catches sight of them. "Quinn!" she screeches, launching herself across the room to fling her arms around Quinn's neck. "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't coming until this Friday!"

"I decided to surprise you," she says, laughing a little as she unwinds Rachel's arms from their stranglehold. "Surprise."

"To answer your question before you got distracted, Rachel; no, I didn't order takeout yet," says Kurt. "But now you're back, how about that vegetarian Thai place you've been craving since last week?"

Quinn blinks. "How did you know that's what she was asking?"

"Three months of living together has turned us into a married couple," says Kurt ruefully. "With none of the perks – thank god for that."

Rachel snorts. "Kurt, we can't possibly order takeout now! Quinn's here!" Beaming, she stands up. Her arm is still linked with Quinn's and the blonde is inadvertently pulled up with her. Rachel seems not to notice. "We're going out for dinner."

"Where? The Thai place?"

"No!" she shrieks indignantly just as Quinn says, "Sounds nice," very affably. The girls exchange looks.

"Quinn, while I appreciate your effort to accommodate my dietary needs, I believe that it would be a better idea for you to try some of New York's culinary specialities," says Rachel (" _Breathe_ , Rachel," mutters Kurt). "I believe the Reuben sandwich is legendary, as are hot dogs and pastrami."

"You don't need to bend over backward for me."

"You're our guest!"

"I'm your friend from high school! I would love to try the food you guys normally eat."

"But – there's this amazing diner two blocks from here which has the most _delicious_ BLT sandwich…" Kurt can tell Quinn's caving (it's dirty pool, really, that Rachel's resorted to that).

Then Quinn recovers and says, rather archly, "How would _you_ know how it tastes like, Rachel?"

"I read food blogs!"

"Ladies," interrupts Kurt loudly, "while I appreciate your noble self-sacrificing, I'm starving, and we should compromise."

"Agreed. We're going to the diner," says Rachel firmly. "There are plenty of vegetarian options there which I have sampled and enjoyed immensely, so we're not being overly accommodating to you, Quinn," she added quickly.

Quinn folded her arms across her chest. "We're having Thai tomorrow, then."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine," says Kurt happily, gathering their coats and hustling them out the door. He spends most of the ten-minute walk Snapchatting the girls, sending his hilarious captioning to Blaine, Mercedes, and anyone else he can think of. It's even more hilarious to him that they never notice what he's doing.

Rachel has reverted back to her incredibly talkative self (and he's been living with her for too long to have noticed that) and it appears Quinn's forgotten how chatty she can be, judging by the slightly stupefied – yet still fond – look on her face. Along the way, Rachel grabs Quinn's hand as they cross a road and doesn't let go after.

Kurt is so focused on getting a good angle for his Snapchat that he doesn't notice he's captured the shy, almost hopeful expression Quinn wears as she looks down at their joined hands.

They are even more nauseatingly adorable in the diner. Rachel insists on ordering for Quinn ("Trust me, Quinn, I've done a significant purview of NYC's best food blogs and selected the highest recommended dish here that I'm confident you'll like") and remembers all of her food quirks. On her part, Quinn remembers that Rachel's lapsed into vegetarianism thanks to her reduced food budget and the rediscovery of cheese and chocolate. She selects a lavish chocolate milkshake for dessert that she promises to share with an envious Rachel.

Kurt silently finishes half of his turkey club sandwich before both girls turn to him expectantly, and he realises he's been asked a question. "I'm sorry, what?"

Rachel giggles. "I said, what do you think of going out to see the tourist sights with us tomorrow?"

"Spare poor Quinn," he says, grinning when she pouts at him. "There are professional tour guide itineraries that look like grade school wishlists next to yours."

"For your information, Kurt Hummel, there is nothing wrong with fully utilizing all the available time in a day to efficiently experience as much of New York as possible within a limited period," Rachel informs him snippily as Kurt and Quinn share a laugh.

"Yes, but there's a fine line between planning a walking tour and scheduling bathroom breaks to the minute." Kurt rolls his eyes. How did that saying go again? You could take the diva out of Ohio, but you couldn't take the annoyingly anal-retentive tendencies out of the diva? He's pretty sure that's not quite it but he can't bring himself to care. Not when Quinn has leaned closer to say something to Rachel and the pout has left her completely.

"Give me strength," he mutters, pulling out his phone to continue his Snapchat saga. Rachel Berry versus the chocolate milkshake has to be documented for posterity, in case he ever needed a favour from her in future.

* * *

Very sensibly, he's chosen to give the Rachel Berry New York Tour Extravaganza a miss in favour of staying home to organise his closet (really a glorified clothesrack, but his job at Vogue is steadily improving it. He has his eye on a D&G coat from last year that he's planning to sneak out from under Isabelle's nose).

He's sitting on the couch with a glass of wine as a reward for the day's work when the sliding door opens and the girls tumble in, noisy and tired. "Move, Kurt, please," says Rachel, tugging Quinn behind her, unceremoniously hip checking Kurt when he doesn't make sufficient room on their sofa fast enough ("God, Rachel! If you make me spill as much as a _single_ drop, I swear you are buying us a new sofa cover!").

"Good day?" he says once he's ascertained that all his wine is safely in its glass.

Rachel makes a happy noise from her corner of the sofa. "The best."

"Amazing," offers Quinn. Rachel turns her head to beam at her.

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it, Quinn. And tomorrow, we can – "

"Whoa, whoa. Relax." Kurt catches the mildly panicked look that flickered across Quinn's face, trying his best not to laugh. "How much ground did you cover? Or rather," he directs his next words at Quinn, "how far did she make you march?"

Quinn laughs awkwardly. "It wasn't that bad."

"You're horrible." Rachel reaches over and snags the glass out of Kurt's hand. "You can have this back after you fetch some for Quinn and me," she commands.

Kurt glares at her. "Dirty blackmailer." But he obligingly goes to fetch two glasses and the bottle (might as well go all out), pouring them a healthy amount each. They clink their glasses together.

"What time's your train, Quinn?"

"Nine-forty in the evening. My first class of the week is in the afternoon, so I can sleep in."

"That's wonderful," says Rachel brightly. "That's your American Lit class, right? The one with that professor you like?"

"Yep."

"I get to start my week with the lovely Cassie July. Lucky me." Rachel takes a sip of her wine, and grimaces. "God. This wine's as sour as her face."

"We're struggling college students. It's the cheap stuff or bust."

Rachel glances at Quinn, and then back at Kurt. "Well. Cheap stuff it is."

* * *

Standing at Grand Central, Kurt can't tell who looks more upset; Quinn, putting a stoic face on but her true feelings leaking out from underneath, or Rachel, who hasn't bothered hiding anything.

"I'll come visit next," says Rachel, throwing her arms around Quinn's neck and nearly strangling the poor girl. "How does the next long weekend sound?"

Quinn nods. "I'll mark my schedule."

Kurt tries hard not to roll his eyes, he really does. But he's only human, and he can't help but look up to the heavens when Quinn gets on her train. Rachel hovers behind the ticket gantry like a lost puppy. If this was a television drama, she'd be sprinting after Quinn's train, shouting her name.

But this is real life, and Quinn waves back frantically as the train pulls out of the station. Rachel's entire body slumps when the train is gone.

He doesn't need to say anything. He buys her a chai latte and chatters to her about the most scandalous gossip heard within the walls of Vogue magazine until she cracks a smile.

* * *

Kurt comes back aching and groaning. He's always prided himself on maintaining his body in top form ("The body is the actor's finest instrument") but the things he puts himself through are downright gruelling. He's got a lot to catch up on.

The apartment is dark when he comes in and flops on the couch. Judging from the jackets still on the rack, it seems that Quinn and Santana are still here.

Speaking of Quinn…

There's a very familiar blonde sitting at his kitchen table in the gloom. She starts when the door slides open.

"You okay?" he asks, hauling himself to his feet with a soft grunt and padding to take a chair next to her. He's so numb with exhaustion that all he can do is think, _Thank McQueen it's not Brody._

"Yeah, I'm fine." Quinn not-so-discreetly dabs her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. He doesn't comment. "Don't mind me. You must be exhausted, you should go to bed."

"Nope, wide awake now," he says, getting up to make himself a mug of tea – chamomile, the perfect soothing drink after a long day (snagged from Rachel's stash, but he doesn't care. He knows she raids his organic cookie supply). "I'm making tea. Do you want some?"

"... Thanks."

By the time he sits back down, she has her head down, peering at her mug as though it contains the secrets of the universe. Kurt busies himself with his own tea, taking slow measured sips. If she feels like talking, she'll talk eventually. Even if she wants to stay true to Quinn-form, he feels that she'll appreciate his company.

"Rachel didn't go through with it," she says quietly.

Kurt knows already – he received a text as triumphant as it was crude from Santana earlier. But he smiles and clasps his hands together. "Oh, good; she finally came to her senses. Thanks to you and Santana, of course."

She offers him the ghost of a smile. "You're welcome. Thanks for calling us."

"She wouldn't listen to me. She needed your opinion. Rachel thinks highly of you both, you know." As soon as it's out of his mouth, he wants to snort at the absurdity of his life now. "From a female perspective, of course. Fabulous as I am, it's just not the same," he jokes.

Quinn's smile becomes a smirk. "She's doing well in school, isn't she?"

He's a little surprised by the change of subject, but goes along with it anyway. "She's terrorising the school, more like,' he says, rolling his eyes. "It's a good thing NYADA's filled to bursting with egos and talent approaching hers otherwise she'd have been murdered in her sleep."

Quinn laughs. "I'm glad she's thriving. Rachel's always been too big for Lima."

"Too much crazy for one small town," he laughingly agrees. "But you're not doing so bad yourself, Miss Yale."

Her smile thins. "Getting in was the easy part. It's scary how everyone there is so talented and smart… it's cutthroat. I'm not born to it like Rachel was for performing. Everything doesn't come naturally to me."

"Nothing McKinley's Head Cheerio can't handle, I'm sure."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but… I was actually thinking of switching my major."

Kurt blinks. "To?"

"Literature, maybe." She blushes. "I used to read a lot." The reference to Lucy Fabray passes without comment.

"It suits you." He can definitely imagine her as a professor or a writer, demolishing sloppy arguments with razor-sharp precision and cool intellect. Kurt's shared a few AP classes with her, and though she isn't one of those geeks who constantly volunteer their answers, she's never failed to impress their teacher the few times she's spoken in class. "I think you'd be amazing at it." Not to mention her new look completely fits the hot teacher aesthetic – but he'd rather burn his Burberry check scarf than say it out loud.

"You think?"

"I know," he smiles at her. Her answering smile has become tiny, almost shy. "You're so much more than a pretty face, Quinn."

Kurt doesn't understand why she bursts into laughter at that, muffling it in her hand so hard it brings tears to her eyes. "Sorry," she says eventually.

"It's nothing." He leans forward. "You know, I don't think we've really had a chance to talk, not with Rachel monopolising you every time you visit. So tell me about Yale. Any cute guys?"

Even in the gloom of their kitchen, Kurt can see her blush when he mentions Rachel. "Of course there are, but I'm not seeing anyone right now." Quinn wraps her hands around her mug, takes a sip.

Kurt studies her carefully. The Quinn in front of him now is uncomfortably close to the one he knew in junior year – struggling to define herself outside of being somebody's girlfriend and/or a Cheerio, fighting to keep her head above water. He was too busy with his own problems to reach out to the girl that had been his favourite Glee dance partner.

"I kissed Santana," she says abruptly, and he nearly chokes.

"Oh." It takes Kurt a while to find an appropriate response for that. "Did you like it?"

Quinn colours. "I – didn't hate it."

"Oh god, isn't this club already bursting at the seams with rainbows and unicorns?" he asks. She smiles a little.

"The truth is… it felt different from being with guys. But it wasn't Santana I wanted, in particular."

"Oh dear Barbra." He's terrified of the next words that will come out of her mouth.

"I think I'm gay."

Kurt chews on his lower lip carefully, thinking of something to say that isn't sarcastic, or unsympathetic. "You know you don't have to label yourself if you don't want to, right?"

"Of course," she snaps, and then relents, reaching out to touch his hand in apology. "Sorry."

"Think nothing of it," says Kurt lightly.

"I just…" Quinn blows out her bangs and slumps back into her chair in a very un-Quinn-like move. "This is the most ironic thing to happen. It's like a horrible television drama."

"Ironic is the word," agrees Kurt. "The blonde cheerleader every guy wants and every girl wants to be, and it turns out she wants the girls."

She looks tired. "I'm sorry to spring this on you so suddenly, but I didn't know who else to talk to."

"No, no, don't apologise for that. I'm glad you told me. But more importantly, I'm glad that you're talking about this instead of repressing it as you Christians tend to do."

It's a mark of how shaken she is that she doesn't respond to the barb. "Actually…"

Kurt stares at her. "How long have you known?" he asks, vaguely horrified in anticipation of her answer.

"Since junior year."

"… _That_ is a long time to be keeping it to yourself." He runs through his memories of the time and a lot of things start to fall into place – more glaringly, Quinn's interactions with Rachel, or as much as the other girl has told him. "I'm just making a wild guess, but do you like someone?"

Her answering sharp intake of breath tells him everything he needs to know. "Santana and I were supposed to share Rachel's bed tonight, and she's sleeping in yours." Kurt nods; his housemate already ran the arrangements by him earlier. He's actually shared a bed with Rachel before – he will cut anyone who dares say _sleeping together_ – and she's not too bad. "Santana's a cuddler. We've had sleepovers and stuff before with Brittany in middle school and I've always been fine, but tonight…"

Kurt doesn't say anything, simply waits for her to continue.

"Rachel decided to back out at the last minute. Santana and I met her at NYADA. We went out for dinner and drinks afterwards," recites Quinn. "Thank God for convincing fake IDs."

"Indeed," says Kurt blandly, with a nod. He's seen Santana's when she bragged about it, flashing it in his face. If that's how she is with her new toys, thank goodness he didn't know her well enough when she'd gotten that boob job. Kurt shudders at the involuntary and scarring mental images produced.

"The place was just a few blocks from here so we got back alright." She's fidgeting with her cuticles now, and Kurt takes that as the sign of the apocalypse, that Quinn Fabray is on the edge of losing it. "Santana came closer and she had her arm around me, and I – I just wanted to kiss her. And then she did."

"Oh, honey."

"It was nothing like kissing Puck or Finn or Sam. It was like all those stupid books and movies said it would be. When I was with a guy, I could be in control because they'd do anything I told them to, and I wasn't crazy with lust like they said I'd be. But when Santana kissed me, I couldn't think. It was so, so much better than any kiss before."

"What did Rachel say?"

Quinn snorts. "She applauded. To be fair, she _was_ pretty drunk by then and I'm not sure if she'll remember it tomorrow, but she said something about college experimentation and she wouldn't be a true performer if she wasn't open to Sapphic experiences, whether her own or her friends'."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "That's Rachel for you."

"And then Rachel kissed me."

His mouth goes slack mid-laugh. "What?"

"She kissed me," repeats Quinn, turning darker pink.

"Oh." He doesn't know what else to say. "... Did you like it better than kissing Santana?"

She doesn't answer, and that telling silence is what puts the pieces together for Kurt. "Dear God. You like Rachel."

Quinn nods, miserably.

Wordlessly he goes to the kitchen, returns a few minutes later with a bottle of wine and two glasses, saying, "I think we need this," and pours them both a drink. When half the bottle is gone, Kurt asks: "So what now?"

"I don't know." She lets him pour her more wine.

"Are you going to tell her?"

"No!" The outburst shocks them both. "No," repeats Quinn, quieter now. "I can't – she's with Brody. I don't want to lose her as a friend."

Kurt arches an eyebrow. "Quinn, you used to order slushie attacks on her, gave her insulting nicknames, and fight over Finn Hudson with her. Rachel stayed your friend throughout."

"This is different, okay? Rachel doesn't see me that way."

"She's never known she could see you any other way," says Kurt quietly, and he watches her bite her lower lip.

Then Quinn says, low and dejected: "She'll never believe me."

"You don't know that for sure." But he relents, seeing how exhausted and unsure she is. Kurt reaches for her hand. "Go get some sleep," he says softly, "it's been a long day."

"That's certainly an understatement." With a tired smile, Quinn rises from her chair – and impulsively, she hugs him before she disappears behind the partition curtain.

* * *

There must have been something in the water because from what he's hearing, he and Blaine weren't the only couple to have a honeymoon night at Mr. Schue's wedding-that-wasn't. He's a little infuriated that Rachel slept with Finn, because their relationship is becoming messier and messier by the second, and why can't that woman – he still loves her to death, bless her heart – ever have a normal personal life?

But the highlight – or lowlight, as it's turning out to be – is Quinn sleeping with Santana.

"I thought you didn't like her in that way," he hisses at Quinn. She winces and takes a long drink of her coffee. He's managed to shake Blaine off so he can have this conversation with her in relative privacy while they both attempt to shake off their hangovers and post-sex lethargy.

"I had a bit of an internal crisis," admits Quinn, "and she was conveniently there. If it makes it any better, she called me Brittany when she – you know."

"No, it doesn't make anything better. Also, sweetie, if you can't say the words, you probably shouldn't be doing it," says Kurt primly. "You're not much better yourself. This is so messed up, I hope you know that."

"So we should be less messed up? Like you and Blaine?" snaps Quinn.

Kurt winces. "Okay, I deserved that one." He forks more scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Fine. I'm declaring this a judgement-free zone from now on. So talk. Was it everything you expected it to be?"

Quinn contemplates her bacon. "In a way, yes. I told you I dated some – _questionable_ – people at Yale…"

He nods. Trust Quinn Fabray to tackle her gay panic in such a spectacular fashion by dating her married male professor, along with a string of fellow students, men and women, indiscriminately. If she ever got famous and released a memoir, he'd be the first in line to buy a copy.

"Yes...?"

"Which wasn't limited to guys."

"Okay."

She's wearing a plain silver ring on the fourth finger of her right hand; he only notices because she's fiddling with it as she speaks. "I found I wasn't really into the guys."

"We've gone over it before, honey."

"I know, but I'm sure now."

"Oh."

Quinn adopts an expression that makes her look like she's sucking on a bitter lemon. "Yeah. Oh."

Kurt presses his lips together. "I'm certainly not implying that I think any less of you for that –"

"No, you're right; I'm sorry," she interjects.

He smiles weakly at her. "Still a bitch."

"Getting better over time."

"And the liking Rachel?" He says, as she blushes furious red and makes shushing motions at him. "Okay, clearly not."

"She told me she and Brody broke up, but she spent a lot of time with Finn at the wedding," says Quinn dejectedly.

Kurt sighs. "You need to talk to her soon."

"I know."

He reaches for her hand – he misses the first try – and squeezes. "Let me know if you need any help locking her in a cupboard."

Quinn snorts. "God, no. That sounds terrible."

"You'll be surprised. Small confined spaces are more conducive to the release of hormones, and thus, long-suppressed emotions. It's a scientifically proven fact."

"You're insane, and you sound like Rachel."

He blushes. "That's what happens when you date cute science undergrads. But don't change the subject. You're the one with an inexplicable crush on the woman who wore a _pantsuit_ in high school."

Quinn tries to frown. Her face wobbles, and Kurt throws up his hands when a grin breaks through. "You are so whipped, Quinn Fabray."

* * *

First he registers Quinn Fabray sitting in his living room, looking as though she belongs there, like a very elegant lamp. Next is Santana at his dining table. Her fingers are curled around a mug. Lastly, Rachel is perched atop a kitchen counter.

None of them are looking at each other. His drama meter goes off, and he steels himself.

"Quinn," he says, smiling widely, "what a surprise. Did you just get here?"

That seems to startle all three into registering his presence. Quinn smiles at him, slides off the couch to give him a hug. "About an hour ago," she says as his housemates say their hellos. "Rachel picked me up from the station."

"Lovely," he says, beaming. "Are you staying for the weekend? We'll go out for something nice."

"Yes – and you don't have to…"

"We do," interjects Rachel firmly, and that gets a reaction from both Santana and Quinn; the Latina sort of glances sideways at her, and Quinn's smile fades at the edges. She gets off the counter and puts her mug in the sink. "I'm going to take a shower," she says, and disappears behind the curtain that cordons off her room.

Santana mutters something under her breath. Kurt rolls his eyes. Women. He's so glad he'll never have to deal with them; Blaine is wonderful in every single way, most of all devoid of the drama that seems to follow women like a raincloud.

"Tell me about Yale. Have you shown those trust fund kids who's the real head cheerleader?" he says to Quinn, whose expression briefly shows relief.

"I try not to mention it," she answers. "They tend not to connect cheerleading with literature students."

He wrinkles his nose. "That is such a cliched notion, I'm not gonna comment on it."

* * *

He waits until Rachel and Santana are asleep before padding out to the kitchen, and finds that Quinn is already there.

"How are you holding up?" he asks gently.

Her shoulders tense, then slump. "I've been better," admits Quinn. He has to agree; there are dark circles under her eyes that must have been hidden by makeup earlier. She looks terrible, and Kurt tells her so.

Quinn smiles. "At least I can depend on you when it comes to the hard truths."

"And so you know that you need to talk to her."

She appears to close in on herself. "Kurt…"

"Quinn. You can't go on like this – you know that."

"What if she doesn't feel the same way?"

"Then you move on, having made the mistake every gay person has of falling for a straight person." He's being relentlessly cruel, they both know that, but Kurt knows she's strong enough to handle it.

"I'm scared."

Kurt relents. He stands up, putting his arms around her from behind, and rests his chin on her shoulder. "You'll be okay."

* * *

Kurt texts Quinn the pertinent details of Rachel's show. He's waiting outside the theater when she arrives, breathless and flushed pink, a bouquet of white flowers in her hand. He arches an eyebrow.

"White?"

"Gardenias," she says.

He doesn't enquire further. Next to himself, he's always admired Quinn's fashion and aesthetic, and he trusts that she has a reason for her choice of congratulatory flowers. "Come on, we'll be late."

Rachel is stunning – he's read the script, ran lines with her, attended a few of her rehearsals, but opening night is always a big deal. Kurt knows she's memorized every word she's saying, yet she delivers her lines like she's living it.

Quinn can't take her eyes off Rachel.

When the show ends and the cast take their bows, Kurt's certain Rachel was the same way.

"Come on," he says, getting to his feet, "let's go backstage and – "

" – I can't," blurts out Quinn suddenly.

"Quinn – "

But she's already up and walking fast, out the doors before Kurt can catch her. Left with no other choice, he goes after her.

Quinn has her arms around herself, pacing in ever-increasing circles outside. "Quinn," he says softly.

"I can't do this. I can't believe I _thought_ I could do this." She turns panicked eyes on him. "Why did you let me think I could do this?"

"Quinn," he repeats, severe this time. She stops rambling. "Take a deep breath and look at me." He catches her hand and squeezes. "You _can_ do this. Stop panicking. Everything's going to be just _fine_."

"You don't know that for sure."

"Okay, so I don't, but at the very least you need to _talk to her_."

"I can't do this," she says again, her voice going into that high-pitched whine of impending panic.

"Quinn." Kurt runs a hand through his hair, forgetting about his meticulously-styled quiff in his frustration. "I know it's hard, and I wish I could make it better, but…" He sighs. "But at the very least, you need to stop running away from the things that scare you, Quinn."

She finally meets his eyes; Quinn holds his gaze for a heartbeat before looking away. She nods, once.

Kurt draws her into a hug. "Go talk to her," he says into her ear, "I'll wait for you guys at home."

* * *

When they come back later that night, Kurt almost springs off the couch in his eagerness to see what has transpired; he bites back a groan of disappointment when Quinn shoots him a pathetically apologetic look.

"There you are!" says Rachel loudly, kissing his cheek. "I saw you in the show but you ran off afterwards."

"Sorry, I had something to do," says Kurt, shooting Quinn a death glare over Rachel's shoulder. "You were lovely, as always."

* * *

He's sprawled on his bed, phone in his hands when he registers a presence hovering nearby. Kurt glances upward into the eyes of a nervous-looking Rachel.

"Rachel?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?" she blurts out.

Kurt nods, and scoots over, patting his bed. She takes a corner.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

"The Metro passes Quinn got us are expiring next month," she starts, "and I, uh, bought new ones." He notices, then, that Rachel has an envelope in her hand.

"And?"

"And… do you think it's too much?"

He lets out a surprised laugh. "She bought them first unexpectedly. _That_ was too much, if anything." Kurt sits up properly so he can peer at her. "Rachel, what's really bothering you?"

"Am I… reading too much into things?"

"You're being very vague."

"You're friends with Quinn."

"As though you aren't," he shoots back.

Rachel shakes her head vehemently. "No, as in – she tells you things that she won't tell me. She trusts you."

Kurt actually snorts. "I can assure you there's nothing going on between Quinn and I, if that's what you're afraid of."

"I – that's not what I'm afraid of. I'm just… I'm scared that I'm reading this all wrong." She stares at him desperately. "I don't have the best track record when it comes to these things."

"Rachel, you have to be more specific. I'm not a mind reader."

"Okay, well… I know I'm being delusional again, but… do you think there's the tiniest possibility that Quinn might actually… like me?"

"... huh?"

She goes beet-red. "I – God, I'm bad at this, you know I am. I tried to marry my first boyfriend while we were still in high school. I'm aware there's the very distinct possibility that I'm reading this all wrong because I've never had close female friendships in my life, as well as being raised by my fathers who – wonderful as they are – are unable to provide appropriate advice from a female perspective…?"

"Okay, stop talking," says Kurt, looking a little green. He has the sinking feeling that if he lets Rachel ramble on, he'll be hearing details about what exactly constitutes a _female perspective_ that he isn't prepared for. "Rachel – are you asking me if Quinn likes you? As more than a friend?"

Hearing it put so bluntly has pretty much the same effect on Rachel as it had on Quinn, albeit with much more drama; Rachel squeaks out a "Yes" and buries her face in her hands.

He sighs, torn between keeping Quinn's secret (even if both _idiots_ are actually on the same page) and ending the latent baby lesbian drama definitively. "Well – do _you_?"

She pulls her face out of her hands just about long enough to mutter, "I don't see how my feelings have to do with anything."

"Are you being serious right now? Because as far as I know, a relationship goes both ways."

Rachel sighs so dramatically, her shoulders heave visibly. "A relationship implies that both parties have feelings for each other."

"Precisely. Think about it." And he swans out, glad to have seen the opportunity to pay Rachel back for the years of dramatic diva exits, and taken it.

* * *

He comes home from a coffee run to find Rachel sitting cross-legged on the couch, a bottle of red wine in front of her. He distinctly recognises it as the one they both solemnly swore to let rest until it matured, and so he figures that something big must have happened.

She jumps a little when he sits down. "I know I shouldn't have, I'll replace it," she blurts out guiltily.

"Tell me what happened that necessitated this first, Streisand," he says, channeling Santana at her finest, "and we'll judge the severity of your punishment accordingly." He follows it up with a very un-Santana-like soothing smile (which, to be honest, Santana is capable of only when Brittany is concerned) and a warm hand on Rachel's.

He expects her to come up with some dramatic opening statement as precursor to her Rachel Berry monologue, but she mumbles something about girls (or it could have been _pearls_ , her diction normally flawless but she _does_ have a cushion jammed under her chin) and covers it up with her wineglass. Kurt is taken aback, to say the least; he's used to Rachel speaking in paragraphs, not parentheses, and it unnerves him.

He tries a different tack.

"I like girls," she says, a little louder. She's red in the face but he attributes that to the alcohol. "Maybe one girl in particular." She hiccoughs. "Not that I don't think that's bad since I have two gay dads," adds Rachel, plowing on faster when she sees the look on his face, "but I've never – I'm not – I don't know."

Kurt eyes her carefully. "You know I love you, theatrics and all, but I'm going to have to press for details so I can be appropriately supportive."

"Sorry." Rachel shifts in her seat a little. "I'm just a little overwhelmed right now. It's a lot to take in."

"Just like the wine."

She rolls her eyes. Her eye roll is matched by his – and he knows his is more spectacular, _thank you Quinn for the pointers_.

"You should talk to her," he says, adding: "Oh, don't look at me like that; it's obvious who you're thinking of," when Rachel gets a panicky look in her eye.

She calms down, but only by a fraction. "But what if she doesn't…?"

"Just talk to her," he says, gentler than before. Kurt pats her hand a final time before leaving for his room.

* * *

He knows Quinn's in New York. He knows Rachel cut class to go to Grand Central and meet her, dinner reservations at one of Quinn's favourite restaurants in hand. He knows they were supposed to come back to the loft after dinner to talk – he went out with Rachel to find the perfect bottle of wine to drink afterwards. (She paid for it as well as another one to replace the one sacrificed during her sexuality crisis.)

What he doesn't know is that things… _not going to plan_ wouldn't be the phrase he'd use. More like _completely bypassed the plan and started making up for years of wasted time_ , because when he comes back the bottle of wine is on the coffee table, half-empty, and there are moans coming from Rachel's room (really Rachel's curtained-off partition).

Kurt tries to be happy for them, he really does. But he is a gay man and the thought of his two female friends engaging in – well, _that_ – does a number on his gag reflex. Briefly, he mulls over the thought of going out for the night when a particularly loud cry of Quinn's name (Rachel Berry is incapable of being quiet in any circumstance whatsoever, damn the woman) makes the decision for him. He walks – _not_ runs – out the door in such a hurry he forgets his scarf.

* * *

Kurt is back by noon, sipping on black coffee to try and get his mind in working order after the excitement of last night; it isn't a good club unless it's too loud to hear yourself think.

Not thinking is pretty good since he's sure he was being checked out a few times.

He hides his smirk with the rim of his coffee mug as Rachel and Quinn emerge from the room. Both look incredibly disheveled; while Rachel has done her best to make her appearance as innocuous as possible, Quinn is blatantly wearing a NYADA sweatshirt. Both sport shy grins.

"Good afternoon," he says, lips twitching to hide a laugh when they start and stare at the clock on the wall. "Spare me the apologies; I think you owe them to most of Bushwick, anyway."

It is worth it, all of it, when Rachel squawks and swats at his arm, and Quinn turns an impressive shade of magenta. He just laughs and ducks out of reach, taking his coffee with him.


End file.
